


After the Fire: A John Winchester Tale

by will_wire



Series: After the Fire: A John Winchester Tale [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, John Winchester's Journal, Prequel, Supernatural - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-03-17 11:00:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13657650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/will_wire/pseuds/will_wire
Summary: Mary Winchester just died under mysterious circumstances that left her home in ruins. Released from police custody after they are unable to tie him to the fire that killed his wife, John Winchester sets out to explain a fire that doesn't seem possible, while trying to protect his young sons, baby Sam and young Dean, from a nameless force he doesn't know how to fight. John doesn't realize it yet, but he's about to set down a road of death and destruction, that neither he nor his sons will ever get off of.





	1. Chapter 1

John Winchester sat at the motel window, pulling the curtains back so he could peek outside. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but that didn’t stop him from looking. He was tired, he’d been answering questions for what felt like an eternity. He was slightly comforted by the two boys sleeping on the bed, but he couldn't shake this feeling that there was something coming for them.

For two days, the Lawrence Police Department held him for questioning. Over and over.

“How did your wife die?”

“I saw her, pinned to the ceiling, and she just... Caught fire.”

Over and over again. Slowly, it began to feel less like an interrogation and more like a mantra. Occasionally, there was a curveball question.

“Were there problems at home? Were you and Mary fighting frequently?”

“We’ve had problems, yes. No, we weren’t fighting.”

“Why don’t you tell us what you saw in the nursery again.”

“I saw her, pinned to the ceiling, and she just... Caught fire.”

“Does Mary have an insurance policy in her name? Is there any way you would stand to benefit from her death?”

“No, sir.”

“Tell us what happened in the nursery again...”

The police obviously didn’t believe what John saw was what happened, but their suspicion of him diminished, slowly but surely. Not without one last hurrah, however.

“Look, John, we know you two fought. We know she made you leave a couple times. Did you kill your wife, John?”

He felt flayed by the questions already, but the bluntness of that one truly wounded him. In that moment, he felt the weight of the ordeal. His wife was dead and they suspected him. 

He looked at the detective, lip trembling, partly out of rage and partly out of sorrow. “No, sir,” he said firmly and defiantly.

The police released John after two days, when they didn’t find anything to charge him with. Still, the situation looked somewhat suspicious, so they insisted that he not leave town. The social worker who took Dean and Sam while he was being questioned released them back into his custody. Through the numbness setting in, a feeling of comfort broke through with their reunion. Though it had only been a matter of days, he could have sworn it was weeks, months maybe. The boys were all he had left, of his wife and of his entire world.

That evening, he checked them into a motel, not two miles away from the place where his life was still smoldering and smoking. He wanted to run out the door, down the roads to home. Part of him truly believed if he could just go, he would see the house standing intact, Mary at the door, asking him where the hell he’d been and why the hell did he take the boys with him. He could go back to his life. As Sam and Dean slept on the bed, he silently pleaded with a god he wasn’t sure even existed. 

“Let me go back,” he prayed. “Let me go back and I’ll do it right. Let me go back and be the husband Mary deserved. Don’t let her have died thinking I failed her. Don’t let her have died thinking I was...”

John realized he’d finally broken down. He covered his mouth to muffle the ragged breathing and sobs. He tried controlling his breath, if he could just breathe it out slowly, he’d be fine. Still, he opened the curtain slightly to look outside. He just about had himself under control when he felt a tug on his sleeve.

Little Dean was standing next to him, his green eyes reflecting the streetlight forcing its way through the sliver of cheap, open curtain. John didn’t think he could possibly understand any of it, but the concern on his face was unmistakable.

“Hey, buddy,” John’s voice strained, threatening to expose his fragile state. “What are you doing out of bed? It’s late.”

Dean, saying nothing, looked at his father right in the eye, and seemingly through John’s entire being. He wrapped his arms around John’s middle, and squeezed. John felt his heart simultaneously leap into his throat and sink into his stomach. He let out a deep sigh, pulled his son’s head into his chest, and wept.

John wasn’t sure what time they’d finally fallen asleep, but he knew it was too early for motel management or housekeeping to be knocking on his door. The rapping on the door hadn’t woken up the boys, Dean on his left and Sam to his right. In fact, Sam slept more soundly since that night than any of the nights in his short life. As John slowly got out of the bed, the rapping resumed. He lumbered slowly to the door and opened it.

“What,” he said, gravelly and low.

“John Winchester?” A bearded white man in a suit asked, holding up a badge and ID. “I’m Agent Holly, this is Agent Checker,” Next to him, a tall, black man in a suit, with an oddly out of place earring, nodded, “and we’re with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Do you have a moment to speak?”

John looked back at the boys, still sound asleep. “Sure.”

John grabbed the room key off of the nightstand and stepped into the hallway. “We’re very sorry for your loss, Mr. Winchester, and for bothering you so early this morning, and so soon after,” Agent Checker said. “We just have a few routine questions for you.”

“Why are the feds interested in a house fire?” John asked flatly.

“Normally, we aren’t,” Agent Holly replied. “But the circumstances of this one raised some red flags. Standard procedure, you understand.”

John nodded.

“The statement you gave to the police,” Agent Checker started. “At first you said you saw your wife pinned to the ceiling. You later walked back that statement, said you maybe didn’t see what you thought.”

“What I saw...” John started, but it was a struggle. “I heard her scream, and I ran up the stairs, and when I came in the nursery, I... I can’t have seen what I thought I saw. Sure as you’re standing here in front of me, I thought I saw my... I thought I saw Mary pinned to the ceiling in the nursery.”

“Do you know how the fire started, Mr. Winchester?” Asked Agent Holly.

“I mean, what I saw... It looked like... The flames were coming out of her.” John was holding himself together as best he could, but it was agonizing. He could see it clearly in his mind. Sam in the crib. The drops of blood. The last time he saw his wife.

“Hey, little guy,” Agent Holly said gently, taking a knee.

John hadn’t heard the the door open. Dean was holding the door open, looking at the agents. His eyes shifted from one to the other and back again. “Dean,” he whispered, unable to get anything else out. Dean looked up at him, and back to Agent Holly.

“We’re sorry for bothering you, we’re only going to keep your dad another minute.” Agent Holly gave him a smile, and Dean smirked slightly in return.

Dean looked up at John. “It’s okay, Dean,” he said. “Go back inside and keep an eye on Sam, okay?” Dean flashed John a brief look of resentment, before looking back at Agent Holly and disappearing back into the room.

Agent Holly stood up, and sighed. “How’s the little guy doing?”

“I don’t know. He hasn’t said...” John thought for a moment. “Honestly, I don’t think he’s said anything since... The other night.”

Agent Holly nodded, grievously. “We know this is a difficult time for you all, we only have a few more questions.” John nodded again. “Before you went to the nursery, do you recall anything else strange? Flickering lights? A drop in the temperature? A smell like rotten eggs?”

John thought carefully. The lights seemed fine. The house was cool, sure, but it was November. The smell, though... “I think... The rotten egg smell... I didn’t think about it at the time, but...I kind of... I think so.”

The two agents looked at each other. “I think we’re all set, Mr. Winchester,” Agent Checker said. “Thank you for your time, again, very sorry for your loss.”

“Wait, but,” John stammered. “Is that relevant somehow?”

The agents looked at each other again. Agent Checker gave his partner an annoyed look. Agent Holly hesitated for a moment before speaking. “Well, Mr. Winchester, what you described is consistent with a gas leak. If the lights had been flickering, we would have suspected... Uh... Faulty wiring, or a short. That still may very well be the case, but... We’ll keep investigating, and if we find anything, we’ll let you know. Take care, Mr. Winchester.” Agent Holly nodded to his partner, who nodded at John before departing down the hall. John stepped back into the room, but left the door open slightly to listen as they walked left.

“That was a fine bit of bullshit you laid down there, Bobby,” Agent Checker said.

“Get off my back, we know what we need to look for,” Agent Holly snapped back. “Let’s check the house, I wanna...” And then they were gone.

John closed the door and turned to see Dean sitting as far across the room from Sam as he could be. He was perched on a chair, feet up and hugging his knees, glaring at Sam over the tops of them. Sam gurgled and kicked on the bed. John hovered over the baby for a moment. Sam looked up at him and smiled. John managed a weak smile in return, the closest to the real thing he’d gotten in what felt like a lifetime. He walked over to Dean and knelt down in front of the chair.

“Dean...” John said to his son, softly. The boy said nothing, still glaring at his brother. “Dean, talk to me, buddy.” Dean set his glare upon John. They stared at each other for a moment. “Dean, say something.” Dean didn’t say anything at all, and resumed glaring at Sam. John could see tears welling up in his son’s eyes. “Dean.” No reaction. John stood up suddenly. “God dammit, Dean! Say something!” He shouted. Dean didn’t flinch, or look at John. He didn’t react at all. Behind him on the bed, Sam, startled by the outburst, started to cry. After a moment, Dean tucked his head down, his eyes covered by his knees. John stumbled back slightly and sat on the bed.

John made arrangements for a funeral service. The truth was, there was little left to bury, but he needed a tangible marker. Something that declared Mary had been alive, that the boys could pay their respects to as men.

The service was a blur. There were people around him, but he may as well have been alone. He felt like he watched the event through a telescope, following him. Words sounded muffled. He could recall Mike offering him a place to bring the boys, and telling him he would think about it. Kate insisted they get out of the motel that day, but John wasn’t ready to be around other people any more than he had to be. Dean’s refusal to speak was a backhanded comfort in that regard. Dean didn’t say a word during the service, and had no shortage of people trying to coax words out of him. John said his goodbyes to the mourners, and started heading for the car. Mike followed him, reminding him of his offer. John nodded and told Mike he might need some time away from the garage. Mike nodded, and didn’t protest it any further. He was still standing there when John put the boys in the back seat and drove away.

Both Dean and Sam were asleep by the time they got back to the motel. As John opened the back door to retrieve Sam, he couldn’t help but crack a tiny smile. There was something about that car that put the boys at ease, and he couldn’t explain what it was, but he felt like they could have stayed in there forever if they had the choice. As he bent down to undo Sam’s carseat, something under the driver’s seat caught his eye. It was a book, a journal used by his father. John picked it up, looked at the embossed letters “HW” inside the cover. Inside, there was all manner of nonsense Henry Winchester had written before he abandoned John and his mother, ages ago. It found its way to John shortly after Henry left, and he would pretend that his father was a horror writer. The older John got, the harder it was for him to put that front up, until he admitted it was just a journal that someone who left he and his mother all alone wrote a bunch of rubbish in. Still, there were more than a few pages left blank inside. He tucked the book under his arm, and carefully picked Sam up from the car seat. When get got over to Dean, he’d woken up.

“Hey, buddy,” John said. “Let’s go inside, okay?” He unbuckled Dean’s seatbelt and the boy jumped out. John closed the door and Dean took his hand, gripping it tight.

They entered the room, and John set Sam down on the bed. “Dean, wash up and brush your teeth, then it’s bedtime.” Dean nodded, still not speaking, but did as he was told.

John heard the faucet going and started thumbing through the journal. He still couldn’t make sense of any of it. The name “Men of Letters” appeared several times, but it was nothing he’d ever heard of. Lists of bizarre sounding ingredients, random phrases in Latin, some in languages he couldn’t make out and didn’t recognize. He found his way to the first blank page, and set the book down behind him.

John walked over to the bathroom as Dean emerged, and patted the boy on the head. “Go hop on into bed, Dean,” he said, and the boy complied. He washed his face and hands, and came back into the room to see Dean curled in a ball, fast asleep, his hand softly grasping Sam’s arm. Dean had kept his distance from Sam since the night Mary died. John caught him shooting the baby glaring looks whenever Sam cooed or cried. Whatever the issue was, Dean seemed to have let it go. ‘Progress,’ John thought.

John sat down at the desk, and stared at the blank page for what must have been ten minutes. Finally, he reached out and took a pen out of the cup. He held the pen over the paper for a moment, hesitating, and then finally writing.

November 6, 1983  
I buried my wife today. Even as I write that down, I don’t believe it. Last week, we were a normal family… eating dinner, going to Dean’s T-ball game, buying toys for baby Sammy. But in an instant, it all changed…

John wrote in the journal regularly every few days. He wasn’t sure why he was writing it it, the idea had never occurred to him. Mary kept a few journals, all lost to the fire. She’d encouraged him to keep one himself for years, but he always brushed it off, it just wasn’t his thing. Mary said it would help him remember little things. It was ironic that he was starting now, after something massive he wished he could forget. He wondered if this was his way of staying connected to her now that she was gone.

The weeks went by, slowly, but somehow still a blur. He went back to the house to see what he could salvage. Anything of value was ruined, and it was a wonder only half of the house was destroyed. When money started getting tight, he checked out of the motel and took Mike and Kate up on their offer. He tried going back to the garage, a few days to start, but it was like crawling across glass. Being away from the boys made him anxious. John hated the idea of them being alone. 

The police stopped by, asking him more questions, some of the same questions, and all while offering no information in return. They wouldn’t tell him if it was a criminal investigation. They wouldn’t tell him if they’d found a cause for the fire. “We can’t divulge information regarding an ongoing investigation,” the officers would say. He had the sneaking suspicion they were just as clueless as he was.

“What about the federal agents?” He asked. “Have they come up with anything?”

The cops looked perplexed. No federal authorities of any kind had contacted them. “Might’ve just been a scam,” one of the officers said. “I heard about people posing as feds every now and again. Asking weird questions.”

John didn’t have anything for them to scam him out of, and he put the incident out of his mind.

Kate often worried, and spoke to him about getting help. He brushed it off. All that time in the Corps., the horrors he saw, and he was able to walk away from that. This was different. 

John grew increasingly paranoid. He jumped at sounds in the night, often worried about the boys’ safety, whether he was with them or not. He’d also taken to drinking, hoping he could get a decent night’s sleep. Just one night, that was all he wanted, but it didn’t help. He felt like he’d been awake since the night Mary died, and it was taking its toll on him. 

Most nights, he just sat at the window of their room, almost as if he was standing guard over his boys. At the window, keeping watch. For what, he wasn’t sure. He couldn’t help but feel dread. He felt like something was out here, stalking him and his sons. Some nameless, shapeless thing was waiting for him to make a mistake, leave himself, or Sam, or Dean vulnerable. It didn’t help that he felt vulnerable all the time.

Sam wasn’t doing well without his mother. He managed to get through the first few weeks, but now almost seemed to be voicing his father’s anguish. There were a few times Sam cried and John could swear he heard Dean talking to him. When he came into the room to check, Dean said nothing, but was either laying in the crib with Sam or at least sitting close. John thought he was imagining things, until through the door, he heard Dean clear as day.

“It’s okay, Sammy,” he said, consoling his brother as he cried. “I don’t like it here, either. Maybe dad will take us for a ride in the Pompala.” Sam hiccuped and gave a little giggle. “See? It’s gonna be okay... I miss mommy, too.” John shifted his weight and the floor beneath him creaked, and then there was silence, except the giggles and gurgles of the baby.

Again, the police brought John in for all the same questions, and again, provided no answers.

“How many times are you going to ask me these questions? How many more times would you like the same answers?” John snapped back at the detective questioning him. “What else are you doing to find out what happened? Are you talking to other people? Has anyone been able to give you ANY information you can tell me? How about giving ME some answers for a change?”

The detective cleared his throat. He hadn’t been expecting John to lash out at him, and certainly didn’t appear to have any more info than John did. “Ah, well,” the detective started shakily. “When we have information that we’re allowed to share, we’ll certainly-“

“Oh, this is horse shit,” John cut him off. “It’s been over a month. Over a month and you can’t even tell me so much as how the fire started? Nothing at all?” The detective loosened his collar nervously. John had him rattled. “Charge me, or cut me loose, goddammit. My sons are waiting for me.”

They let him go, just in time to put the boys to bed. John was reeling. 

Mike confronted John about three weeks into their stay. John stumbled into the kitchen, head ringing with a four-alarm hangover, and Nick was at the table, waiting. 

“Hey, John,” Mike said stiffly. “You got a minute?” John nodded. “Look, you can’t keep missing work like this, man. We’re backed up with jobs. We’re gonna start losing customers if we don’t get our shit straight.”

John took that to mean he needed to get his shit straight. “I know, Mike,” John said, exasperated. “I’m trying, I really am, but...”

“But nothing, John,” Mike said, sharply. “Don’t misunderstand me, I get it. I know you’re hurting, but you can’t keep phoning it in like this. You have to pull yourself together. If not for yourself, then do it for the boys.”

“I know, Mike,” John said grimly. “You’re right, but I can’t just... Leave them alone every day, I can’t just be alone every day, after what happened. How can I?”

“We put together something great, John,” Mike replied, putting his hands on John’s shoulders. “You spent your entire civilian life building our garage from the ground up, man. Don’t just let it fall apart now.”

John felt like he was talking to a stranger. Mike didn’t understand. The things John saw, what he went through, what he felt was still coming after him, it was easy for Mike to dismiss it all. He knew John was barely sleeping, but he didn’t know about the nights John didn’t sleep at all. He knew John was anxiety-ridden, but he didn’t take it seriously. There was a point to which John could understand. The whole thing was ludicrous.

“Just… Try to think about the business, John. Think about what we’ve built together.”

“I don’t,” John started speaking before he had the words. “I don’t want this, Mike.”

“Want what?” Mike asked, confused.

“It’s yours. The garage, my part in it. It’s yours. Whatever you want to do with it, go ahead. Take it.”

Mike gave a half-hearted laugh. “You’re not… You can’t be serious. This is your life’s work we’re talking about here. You’re, what, just gonna walk away from it? Over your loss?”

John knew what he was going to say and what it meant, and it unnerved him. This was a place he couldn’t come back from. He knew everything was going to change, and it nearly made him sick. He didn’t know where he was going from here, but he knew what he needed to do to get there.

“This is different, Mike. This isn’t just… Life taking its course. What happened to us, I can’t explain it. If I never find out what it was, if I can’t look Sammy in the eye when he’s a man and tell him exactly what took his mother from him, I’ll just… I’ll go mad, Mike. I can’t do it. I need to know. I need to know for myself, and I need to know for my boys. I can’t explain what happened, but it wasn’t normal. Someone wanted this to happen to us, and I’m going to find out who and I’m going to find out why. I just… I need you to understand that.”

All John’s confession seemed to do was test Mike’s already thinly-worn patience. He didn’t want to make Mike angry, he just wanted him to understand. He couldn’t explain it any more plainly. Mike nodded, tight-lipped, saying nothing, but John could see the anger and disappointment in his face.

“Look,” said John, delicately. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me and my family. Don’t for a second think I don’t. I know I’m wearing out my welcome here. All I’m asking is for you to trust me.”

Mike rubbed the bridge of his nose, looked John right in the eye and said, “You need help, John.” Then he turned around and walked out the door.

John gave him a few minutes to drive off before getting in the Impala and heading to his house.

John stood before the house. It was a half-burned out husk, still somewhat recognizable, but fundamentally altered forever, almost a reflection of John himself. Maybe it could be salvaged, but he was sure he wouldn’t be the one to do it. The idea of having the money to fix it never even occurred to him. There was no way he could ever live there again, and he wouldn’t subject the boys to sleeping in the place their mother died. 

John went door to door, asking his neighbors if they saw anything. Their cars were in the driveway, but most didn’t answer the door. John suspected they didn’t have the stomach to face him after what happened to him, or worse, after what they suspected he’d done. The few who answered all said the same thing; nothing weird in the neighborhood that night, no strangers they saw roaming the street.

John made his way to the library by noon. He pored over everything he could find about strange fires and arson. Police reports, newspaper articles, everything. There wasn’t much in them, mostly insurance scams. They were screw-ups, assholes, he was looking for a cold-blooded killer.

John returned to Mike and Katie’s after dinner. The boys had eaten, and were already in bed. Katie gave him a sympathetic smile, and Mike just glared at him, before walking out of the room.

John went up to their bedroom, and heard Sam fussing. Dean was fast asleep in the crib next to his brother, and John smirked. Dean was way too big for it, but he kept wedging himself in there to protect Sam anyway. John picked the baby up and brought him over to the changing table. All cleaned up and back in his onesie, Sam was still upset. John paced around the room, bobbing up and down, hushing his son. Before he knew it was happening, John found himself singing quietly, which he thought was a good thing. He was an appalling singer.

“You must remember this, a kiss is just a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh. The fundamental things apply, as time goes by...”

Sam watched his father quietly, looking right into his eyes, though John could see his eyelids getting heavier. It seemed to be doing the trick, so John continued. 

“And when two lovers woo, they still say, ‘I love you.’ On that you can rely, no matter what the future brings as time goes by...”

John voice broke at the last word. He stopped, realizing Sam had nodded out, and that he was in tears. As he put the baby back in the crib, Dean reached out for his hand, holding on gently. He knew Dean wouldn’t say anything, and for once, he didn’t have to. 

John sighed. “I know, Dean. Go to sleep, okay?”

Dean nodded and pulled his blanket up, covering Sam, even though it uncovered his feet. John sighed, poured himself a drink, and wrote in the journal.

A couple days later, John picked up some things the firemen managed to recover from the house. Nothing major, a few photos, some toys, and a revolver. A first generation Colt Single Action Army that John found at a flea market after Vietnam. It was sixty years old, but John managed to restore it into working order. It wasn’t anything special, but he kept it under his pillow, just in case. He put his head down and began to drift off, when he woke suddenly and sat up in bed. 

There was something in one of the books he read that had just suddenly stuck out in his mind. Fires that made no sense, unexplainable blazes that seemed as if they were being controlled. It seemed outlandish, but he couldn’t stop thinking about the way the fire hadn’t started until he saw Mary, how it seemed to be blocking him from getting to her. He couldn’t wrap his brain around it, but he felt like he was remembering it more clearly than he had in a month. He became very aware of how alone he was, nobody believed him. The cops, the few people in Mary’s family he’d spoken to, not to mention Mike and Katie. They all thought he was crazy, or worse, lying to cover up her murder. To make matters worse, the cops had nothing to tell him other than it was probably an electrical fire. 

The next morning, John went to a gun store. He bought picked up a shotgun, and a couple pistols. One was a Colt 1911 with ivory grips and ornate engravings. The other was a Taurus PT92AFS, with mother of pearl grips. He also bought a case that fit neatly into the trunk of the Impala. The few weapons looked ridiculous taking up so little space, but he had the feeling he was going to be purchasing more.

On his way back to Mike and Katie’s, a book store caught his eye. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt compelled to stop. He noticed strange emblems, weather-worn, carved above the door. When he walked in, the cashier was reading a book. He looked at John over the top, and started reading again. John didn’t know what he was looking for, but found himself with a small stack of books about unexplained phenomena. 

The next day, John found himself seeing a psychic. He was desperate, needed someone to see the truth, maybe explain what it was he’d seen, or any of the things he’d been reading. The psychic was full of shit.

“I sense you are... looking for answers,” the man said, tracing the lines of John’s palm.

“... Yeah, I just said that,” John replied flatly.

“I can see it!” The man cried out. “People are very worried about you, Jim.”

“... John.”

The psychic froze for a moment. “The spirits... They call you ‘Jim,’ or perhaps they are speaking on behalf of a Jim?”

John left and tried another, but it was even worse. The psychics all told their customers what they wanted to hear. Their loved ones missed them. They were worried about them. There was grave peril in their futures. John kept visiting psychics, but for the life of him didn’t know why.

John resolved to stop visiting them, wasting the little money he had left, after just one more. The last place he was going to try had a no-frills sign out front that simply read “Missouri Moseley, Psychic.” He walked through the door, which rang a little bell. He couldn’t place his finger on what it was, but for the first time in a month and a half, John felt warm, welcome, almost safe. A young black woman, medium length curly hair pushed back with a burgundy headband leaned out from a doorway. She looked at him with genuine concern, and John felt like it was the first person who’d actually seen him since Mary died. It was awkwardly quiet for a moment.

“Uh... Hi. Are you Missouri?” John asked.

“Oh, honey,” Missouri whispered, nodding. “You have seen some serious shit, haven’t you?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Winchester's hunt for the truth about his wife's death has led him to nothing but dead ends. In his desperation, John seeks out mediums to no avail, until he happens upon Missouri Moseley, who appears to be a bonafide psychic. What they discover will set John down the path towards the answers he seeks, but even Missouri can't foresee the toll his obsession will take on the Winchester family for years to come.

John sat down on Missouri’s couch. The psychic poured him a cup of tea and one for herself, and sat in the chair opposite him. John was about to decline the cup when she cut him off as he drew the breath.

“I know you don’t drink tea,” Missouri said. “But it’ll help get you comfortable. We have a lot to talk about.” John stared at her for a moment, feeling way out of his league. He snapped back to and his eyes shifted to the coffee table, looking to his left. “The milk's there on your right.” She stirred her own tea and watched John piecing everything together. Slightly shaking, he poured a bit of milk into his tea. 

He tried talking again. “You’re-“

“A real psychic? Yes, I am.” She finished his sentence, smirking at him. “I can do this all day, John.” The fact that she knew his name was the least strange thing so far.

“It’s just a relief, is all,” John said with a smile. “I’ve been a bit lost lately.”

“Don’t I know it,” Missouri said, punctuating with a sip of her tea. “You’ve been going to every two-bit palm reader in town. Walked by this place three times without so much as looking at it.”

John was caught off guard. “Why didn’t you stop me then?”

“Boy, you had to get here on your own.” Missouri set her teacup down. “I can guide people. I can read their past, present, and future, but you can’t push someone whose time ain’t yet. I saw you coming here when you were ready and you weren’t ready until today. So, I put the kettle on twenty minutes ago and here you are.”

John laughed. It was strange how natural this felt to him. As absurd as the situation was, it was about as close to normal as he’d felt in a lifetime. Still, a doubt nagged him. It seemed too easy, too good to be true. 

“So, how does this work?” He asked.

She sighed, looking worried for the first time since John walked through her door. John had seen his share of sympathetic faces - from people who didn’t, couldn’t, or wouldn’t understand. Seeing someone show concern, but seeming to fully understand the situation, was something else entirely. 

“If we’re being honest, there’s plenty I can tell you already. There are some things, though... I’m not completely sure what it is I’m seeing,” Missouri said gravely.

“Yeah, I think I know what you mean,” replied John.

“Wherever you’re comfortable starting, John, that’s what I want to hear first,” Missouri said.

John took a deep breath, unsteady and unsure where to begin, when everything suddenly poured out effortlessly. The things he told the police, who didn’t believe him. The things he tried to tell Mike and Katie, who thought he was losing it. Missouri listened, intently, never looking at him incredulously, never contradicting him, and most importantly, believing him. John felt true empathy radiating from the woman who asked him to tell such a tall tale. He appreciated feeling like he had a true friend again, and he barely even knew her. 

An idea occurred to him. “I don’t want to take up too much of your time. Do you have any other appointments, or...?”

Missouri smiled. “John, I made sure to leave my schedule clear today.”

John returned her smile. “I’ll be right back, then.”

“Can’t wait to meet them,” Missouri replied.

John shook his head and laughed, walking out the door.

John was back within the hour, Sam and Dean in tow. Dean was apprehensive as they approached the door.

“Hey, buddy,” John said. “Don’t worry, this is a safe place, okay?”

Dean nodded. Missouri opened the door for them.

“Well, look at these handsome young men,” she said glowingly. “Come on in, I brewed some more tea.”

The Winchesters walked into Missouri’s living room, John resuming his place on her couch. Dean stayed at the doorway for a moment.

“You can go ahead and sit with your daddy if you want,” Missouri said, placing her hand on Dean’s head. “Do you want something to drink?”

Dean smiled, saying nothing.

“I’ll be right back,” she said.

John, forgetting where he was, said “But he didn’t say anything.”

“That doesn’t mean I didn’t hear him,” Missouri replied, leaving John again impressed and dumbfounded. She came back with a sippy-cup of apple juice. “Here you go, baby.”

Dean took the cup. “Thank you,” the boy squeaked.

Missouri looked as taken aback as John was.

“Huh,” she said. “Didn’t see that coming.”

They sat around talking for hours, Dean more than anyone. Dean told her all about how he played tee ball, and how he liked the Monster at the End of This Book, and how he missed his mom, but his dad never slept and kept them safe. Missouri had Sam bouncing on her knee, totally enamored with her, babbling and giggling. John just sat back and enjoyed the scene. He couldn’t help but trust her, seeing his boys come alive again, taking a moment to act like kids, after so long. It felt overdue, and it pained him that it was something he seemed to be unable to provide them, but he didn’t regret seeing them enjoy it. They stayed long until after it was dark, past when Sam and Dean zonked out.

“You’re more than welcome to sleep on the couch if you want,” Missouri said, “though you won’t.”

John smiled yet again. “No, I don’t want to impose on you any longer. I’ll be back soon, though, I still have a lot of questions.”

“And I have more answers for you,” the psychic replied. “But you’re not gonna like what I need to ask of you to get them.”

John sighed. The weight of the world was slowly creeping back onto his shoulders. “You want to go to the house,” he said.

“Honey, I’m the psychic around here,” she joked. “It’s a tall order, I know. But there’s something like... a cloud over what happened that night. I’ll be honest with you, sugar, there aren’t many reasons I wouldn’t be able to see this, and it’s almost certainly because someone or something doesn’t want me seeing it clearly.”

“Some ‘thing?’” John asked.

“You’ve had your suspicions, haven’t you?” Missouri asked. “There are things in this world you wouldn’t believe, John, I know you can feel that. Me, personally? I’ve seen a few things, but this... Whatever this is, it’s serious business. Take a few days. We’ll go see if we can’t get a look at it, at least.”

John nodded. “I can’t thank you enough, Missouri. Today has meant a lot to me, to the boys, too.”

“I do what I can,” Missouri said.

John loaded the boys into the car and drove back to Mike and Katie’s. Even though the next step was terrifying, he felt renewed, human again. He snuck back into the house, and set the boys down on the bed. Dean roused from his sleep as John climbed into the bed next to him.

“When did we come back home?” Dean asked.

“Just got back,” John said.

“Are we gonna see Missy again?” Dean yawned.

“Yeah, buddy, we’ll see her again,” John said with a smile.

Dean started falling asleep mid-sentence. “That’s good. She’s nice. I like nice.” And he was out.

...

A few days later, John left the boys with Kate and met Missouri at the shell of his home. It had been a month and a half since the fire and no effort had yet been made to demolish it. It stood, half-destroyed, an open wound on the neighborhood, a reflection of John himself.

As John pulled up to the house, he saw Missouri, standing at the edge of the lawn. Unnerved, he slammed the door to the Impala harder than he meant to, and she didn't react at all. He noticed her hands at her side, balled into tight fists, and was taken aback at how angry she appeared to be on his behalf. As he came closer, he noticed the fists were shaking.

"Oh, I wish this was anger, honey," Missouri called to him, not turning to greet him, just standing rigid, staring straight forward at the house. "Y'ever meet a dog, and just from looking at it, you know it's gonna bite you? Maybe he bares his teeth at'cha, maybe he growls, doesn't matter. You just know." John nodded. Missouri raised her arm and pointed at the house, almost accusingly. "I believe that dog is fixing to bite me."

John then recognized Missouri's posture more clearly - she was waiting for an attack. He stood next to her, and she relaxed. She nodded, still not looking away from the house. "I don't like this. Not. One. Bit," she muttered as she advanced towards the front door.

John followed a few steps and froze. It was as if he'd stepped through a veil - suddenly, he was very aware of how cold it was, where exactly he was going, and the weight of what this all was. He, Mary, and the boys had only lived there a short time, but the years washed over him like millennia. The good moments repeated over and over in his mind, always collapsing into the one moment of true horror. He even thought about the bad times, or at least what he would have considered bad two months ago. He longed for the good times, and would have weathered the bad, alone, times two, if it meant Mary could be spared the one night of horror. He would have gladly lost every fight if it meant she would win.

"Don't do that, not now," Missouri called to John as she stripped the caution tape from the front door. "I might need an extra set of eyes here. There's a lot to take in."

John rushed up to the door. "Whoa, wait, we can't just go in there!" He cried.

"Why the hell not?"

Exasperated, John struggled for the words. "Because, it's... not... not safe."

Missouri took her eyes off the house for the first time to look at John incredulously. "Honey, safe was ten exits ago." She lingered a moment, opened the door, and stepped through, John following without hesitation.

Missouri closed her eyes and walked through the ruin, effortlessly stepping around the debris. John treaded carefully, not sure where water or fire may have weakened the floors. He reached out and felt a wall partially scorched by the blaze, tracing his finger tips along the edges where wallpaper laid before curling away or burning up. His fingers bumped into a frame, blackened, a ruined picture of his family, discolored, warped, trapped behind cracked glass. The cracks obscured Mary completely. They separated him from his boys, and the boys from each other. He thought about retrieving the photo, but couldn’t think of a reason good enough to disturb it.

Missouri came and stood next to him, eyes open, darting to different points of the room. "One thing I can tell you for certain,” she whispered, almost with a shudder. "He is one ugly son of a bitch."

“He?” John asked. “There was a ‘he’? You know what he looks like?”

"For lack of a better term, he. And no, I can't quite get a look at him,” Missouri whispered, surveying the photo John was looking at. "I'll be up front, John, I've never seen anything like him before. I'm having a hard time telling if there's something still here or if it's just an echo." 

“Echo?”

"Yeah, an echo. Everything leaves one." Missouri looked from the photo, to John, and back to the photo. “You and your missus having a tiff, that's a party popper in a gymnasium. A house fire, a tragedy, that's a firecracker. Him? He’s more like a car bomb.”

They stood side by side, unmoving, in silence for a moment. John felt winded.

“You okay?” John asked.

“You can read a lot from an echo, if you know how. You can make out feelings, anything your senses might catch and some things you might miss. I can tell you how annoyed she was that you put too much salt in the mashed potatoes that night. I can tell you the beer you didn’t finish before nodding off that night tasted flat when you opened it." She looked to John with a smirk, and he looked like he was going to faint. "It all... bounces back.” She walked over to the remains of the staircase. She stood at the bottom and peered up. Even in the daylight, the hallway at the top seemed shrouded in unnatural darkness. John approached cautiously.

“I don’t think the stairs would hold,” he said.

Missouri scoffed. “Honey, you ain’t paying me enough for me to want to go up into that.”

John peered into the darkness. “I... I didn’t know I was supposed to be paying you.”

“You’re not. All the more reason that sure as hell ain’t happening.” Missouri closed her eyes and put her hand on the bannister. “But, then again... I'm telling you, it looks just like he's still in the nursery... What the hell is he doing in the nursery?...” Her shoulders slumped a bit, and she took a deep breath. “Ah, dammit.” She started creeping up the stairs anyway.

John tensed, and nearly charged up the stairs. “Wait!” He whispered. “Don’t just... We don’t know who he is!”

John followed her up the staircase, careful to avoid the center of the steps. She got to the top and rounded the corner before he was halfway up. “Wait! No!” He hurried around the corner frenzied. Suddenly in the nursery, John was blinded by sunlight pouring through a massive hole in the ceiling where the fire department chopped through. 

“He’s long gone,” Missouri said. “Left such a mark that I wasn’t sure until we got up close.” She looked down at a charred frame that still faintly resembled a crib, and up to where the ceiling used to be. John didn’t say anything. He could tell by the look on her face she already knew.

“He’s big and he’s mean and he’s got some serious power. I can see him here... He was here a while, but what was he doing...?” Missouri closed her eyes tight in concentration. “Show me your face, you son of a bitch. What were you up to?” She struggled to pull the picture together in her mind, but couldn’t quite focus. Each time she picked a new vantage point, it was as if a hand gripped the back of her head and forced her to look away. She persisted, pushing back against the hand, until she could almost make out his face. He turned his head suddenly, and Missouri was sure he was looking at her. 

Then suddenly, many things happened all at once. She saw a flash of blood, heard shouting, waves of emotion crashing over her, battering her. She fell back, startled, as Mary Winchester erupted into flames on the ceiling. She could hear John shout to Mary, and feel the heat of the fire engulfing the room around her. 

And then John was shouting to her.

“Missouri!”

She looked up at him from the floor. “What? I’m working!”

John was stricken pale, wide eyed. He inched closer to help her off the floor, wary of her for some reason.

“You look positively shook, sugar. What is it?” She asked, looking around the room, which was back to its roofless and freezing normal.

John looked confused. “You just stood here, frozen in silence for ten minutes. Then you fell over, and...” He trailed off and pointed to his nose.

It was as if pointing it out had rebooted her senses in the real world, all at once, she could feel the heat of the blood and its metallic taste in her lips. She put her fingers to her lips and looked to the tips, as if she wasn’t already certain her nose was bleeding. “Huh,” she said, in detached amusement. John helped her to her up, but her knees buckled. More flashes, more scenes, and Missouri groaned in pain. John held her, borderline panicked. She looked down at her foot, still trickling blood, and started laughing.

“I don’t… I don’t get it, what’s so funny?” John asked, propping her up.

Missouri managed to stifle her laughter enough to say “I lost my shoe.”

John held her up while she slid her foot back into her shoe. “Is this how it normally happens?” he asked concerned, guiding her to the door.

“Jerk,” Missouri giggled.

“You’re delirious,” John said suppressing a laugh, carefully leading her down the sides of the stairs.

He wondered if she was just messing with him, but couldn’t shake the worry that whatever she saw sent her around the bend. For now, the best he could do was remain calm until they got to safety. John opened the front door and peered out, making sure their suspicious activity had gone unnoticed, before hurrying Missouri out to the Impala. She broke free of John and pressed her face against the passenger’s-side window, still giggling.

“Heh. Legos in the vents,” she muttered.

“What?” John asked, to which Missouri responded by laughing harder. He looked around for a car, but he was the only one parked on the street. “Did you walk here?”

“I’m an Aquarius, I enjoy sunsets, long walks...” she whispered, face still pressed against the window.

“Jesus,” John said, sitting down in the driver’s seat. He leaned over and unlocked the door. “Get in, I’m bringing you to the hospital.”

“Driver picks the music,” she said in a low, mocking voice. “Shotgun shuts his cake hole.” Missouri slumped down into the seat, and broke out into giggles again.

John was halfway to the hospital before Missouri got herself under control and convinced him to just take her home.

“That was new,” she said groggily.

“What exactly was that?” John asked. 

“I could see that night... and I was trying to get a look at his face, but I couldn’t get the right angle. I kept trying and then... I could swear he looked right at me and said something,” Missouri said with a shiver.

“Wait, but... Can an echo do that?” John pulled up to the sidewalk outside Missouri’s house and put the car in park. She sat forward, digging her elbows into her knees, and holding her head in her hands.

Missouri rubbed her temples. “Echos are basically just the record of the event. It very well could have just been him reacting to Mary entering the room, but everything got all jumbled when he turned, and… From where I was, it sure looked like he was reacting to me.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Missouri looked exhausted, and John didn’t want to make her relive it, but he had questions. “Did you get a look at his face? Anything that we could identify him with?”

She thought hard a moment before answering, “No.. It was like something was blocking me, pushing me out, and I had to struggle to stay and watch everything else. Then, there was all this feedback. It went from that night to this... cascade of random events. Things I couldn’t make out, that didn’t really make sense. Could’ve swore I saw your car, though.”

“Why would that make you all loopy, though?” John asked. “I thought I was gonna have to commit you or something. You weren’t making any sense.”

“Again, just a guess… So much of it, all at once, it just… kind of came pouring out.” She chuckled grimly. “Sorry about that, hun. I bet that was a bit of a shock.”

John laughed with her. “It got a little interesting, yeah,” he said. When he stifled the laughter a bit, he asked the big question. “So... What is this thing?”

“The only things I can tell you for certain are he’s very old, very powerful, and utterly, indescribably evil. Overwhelmingly so. It sounds a little corny, but it’s just how I read it. Whatever he is, he wants to keep it quiet and it’s not going to be good. He doesn’t want to be found and he doesn’t want anyone snooping.” Missouri took a deep breath before finishing. “There are people I know how might have a better idea of what you’re dealing with, but... You may never find him again unless he wants you to, John.”

They sat in silence again, when John mustered up the courage to ask another question, but before he could, Missouri interrupted him. “You don’t want to know, but you’re still gonna ask, aren’t you?”

John sighed. “You said you can read what people feel?” he asked, and Missouri nodded. “… What did… What was Mary feeling when…”

“You want to know if she was angry with you,” Missouri cut to the chase. “And if she wasn’t angry with you, you want to know what she was feeling instead?” John nodded, and she shook her head. “I don’t think… I can’t…”

“Please,” pleaded John. “I have to…”

Missouri looked to John, mournfully. “She was afraid.”

John felt like the ground beneath him dropped out and he was falling, all while his insides twisted until they swelled up and burst. He didn’t know what he was expecting, or what value there was in even asking, but he felt compelled to ask anyway. That Mary died in fear was somehow worse than the fact that it had happened to begin with. When he thought he couldn’t stay composed any further, Missouri put a hand on his shoulder.

“No, baby,” she said. “Not like that. She wasn’t afraid to die. She was afraid for the boys, and for you. Give her some credit.”

John broke eye contact, and exhaled sharply, trying to keep himself together. “Okay,” he said, nodding. “Okay.”

Missouri squeezed his shoulder gently, and unbuckled her seatbelt. As she reached for the door handle, she thought better of it and looked back. “You know that, if you need absolutely anything…”

John nodded, gratefully, simultaneously smiling and trying to hold tears back. She nodded and stepped out of the car. He called to her before she closed the door. “Hey, what did it say to you?”

John couldn’t see her face, and she didn’t lean down to look right at him. “I couldn’t make it out.”

John again wasn’t sure what the purpose of his question was, it just seemed natural to hope there might be some kind of clue. "That's okay. You get some rest, you hear? I'll come by with the boys soon, and we can talk about who else I need to talk to, if you don't mind."

Missouri ducked down and smiled at him. "You bring those boys by any time you want."

John smiled back and waved goodbye. Missouri closed the door, and started up the walk towards her house. John watched her get to the door, and turned the heat on. The heat kicked in full blast, with a faint rattling noise. 'What the hell is that?' John wondered as he pulled away.

Missouri let the screen door close and turned around to watch John drive away. She wondered what the hell she was getting into or if it could possibly be worth it. Above all, what bothered her the most, was how it was possible for an echo, a static record of an event, the same as a footprint, or a photograph, to look directly at her without her being able to see his face.

More troubling was how or why it would say "No, Missouri."


End file.
